


courtly love

by Zekkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Pre-Canon, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22529467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zekkass/pseuds/Zekkass
Summary: he spots her on a battlefield
Relationships: Lugnut/Strika
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	courtly love

**Author's Note:**

> super belated merry christmas zee!
> 
> fic is set pre-war, pre-canon, in my kind of AU setting for TFA where the warbuilds are assembled in a grand conquering fleet, constantly at war with aliens

//

Another alien world, alien fauna; flora; enemies. Lugnut lifts away from his bombs, already turning in a banking pass to come back to battlefield. They’re winning, of course, but victory must be total to repay the insult done to them: the death of a scout. It doesn’t matter that the scout was careless and that there are thousands more where that one came from. It matters that these aliens took one of theirs, and he is gloriously lucky to be on the front lines in this assault on one of their population centers.

Missiles streak up from below, forcing him to curse and open fire; it won’t be enough, and he’ll have to trust his armor - 

Plasma from above; the missile bursting into blue flames; commandos dropping from a carrier even higher than he is. The first glimpse he ever has of her: descending with a cannon in her arms, calling targets over the comms, firing away, lit in a blaze of glory.

Gravity takes her away and he cannot follow.

//

Life in the Fleet has just enough room for socialization to satisfy the soldiers; finding her isn’t difficult. A communications mech listens to his request, sends him the location of her unit, and when he’s repaired he makes his way directly to her unit’s quarters.

The door opens before he can bang on it, and Lugnut almost falls to his knees: she’s framed by the red light from within the quarters, her optics shining. She is bigger than he remembered, armored and pleasing to his optics. Her expression is stern, but not yet angry.

Oh, that he _could_ fall and worship her as she deserves - he begins the motion before she stops it by grabbing his arm.

“You,” she says, and her deep registers are everything a voice should be. “The bomber from before. If you have come to thank us for saving your armor, do not.”

“I came to learn your name,” Lugnut says, and now he lets himself cross an arm over his chest and bow. “I am Lugnut.” His optics never leave her, and he catches the surprise before she stiffens.

“Strika,” she says, blunt. He immediately commits the name to his deepest memories and he can’t help it, he knows he’s radiating joy and worship. She is beautiful and strong and skilled and she understands that their focus must be on the battlefield, and not on self-congratulatory tours around the ships. She is everything and he is merely a bomber, only support, but oh, to be _her_ support - 

Her optics narrow, and she steps forward, forcing him to step back, bump against the opposite wall.

“I don’t want worship,” she says. “Not for what I am.”

This is the one thing Lugnut cannot do for her. He averts his forward optic, closes the rest. What is there to say?

“Leave.”

He does.

//

It takes weeks and one skirmish for Strika to understand that Lugnut’s faith is genuine. He is drawn back to her quarters again and again, eager to see her. If he can only hear her voice - 

Understanding comes on the battlefield, when he dives from the sky - they are on a planetoid with atmosphere - and rids Strika of a threat by landing on it. It isn’t in his orders, but rather in the universal orders all Fleet mechs follow: _protect each other._

Understanding comes when he apologizes for stealing a kill; he can see it in her optics. He has to take to the air before they can take this understanding further.

His logic centers struggle, chasing the question as he flies and fights. She is beautiful and majestic and he wants only to support and love her as he can. She rejected him because of those very reasons, so why would the act of performing his support change her perspective?

Perhaps someone offered her the same in the past and failed. Percentages creep up and now he knows never to ask, never to learn who betrayed her trust. Now he knows that he _must_ succeed where they failed.

//

“Right,” she says from above him. Lugnut is on his knees, forearms laid over his thighs. He stares up at her, waiting for her decision. They are alone, in a quiet little room that has been used for millions of liasons since this particular ship was forged. “I put in a request for you to be assigned to my unit. We could use someone reliable.”

He is kneeling because she asked him to.

“You want more than that,” she says, and she _touches his helm with her fingers._ He can’t stop the rush of his fans, the flare of adoration in his field.

Her fingers move over his optics, silently counting each one before sliding down to explore the hinge of his jaw. A short motion and she’s inside his mouth, stroking a thumb over his glossae and testing the weight of it.

There’s a click and whir and her spike extends, segment rising out of each segment in a motion that has Lugnut’s lubricants flowing. He would do anything to have that spike inside of him, and Strika knows it.

She gives it to him, wrapping her fingers around her spike and guiding it into his mouth. He doesn’t have the delicacy required to wrap his glossae around her but he licks her with all the fervent love he feels. Above her optics dim and her hands move to rest on his head, one finger on his primary optic. He licks faster, eager to hear her moan, eager to hear her vocalize anything, even just a fan - 

A perfect reward: her low voice moaning his name, a soft crackle over the vowels that has his own spike straining in its housing. He doesn’t dare release it, busy with her spike, busy with her pleasure.

He presses forward, taking more of her spike and feeling its weight on his glossae. Yes. He moans around it, wordless and static-filled and somehow that’s enough for her to overload in a rush of heat. Any fluids that spill he will clean up, but he captures most of it and releases her spike reluctantly. Would that he could stay there forever.

Strika shudders all over in a show of pleasure and with dimmed optics she slides her hand under his mouth and tilts his face up.

“I want you,” she says, and Lugnut overloads in a rush of joy.

//


End file.
